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Sirens wailed.
Someone screamed as a fight broke out. Drunken men threw punches. We’d driven past before I knew it, speeding through the streets before turning once more. The landscape only grew more violent, and a lot seedier. Harley engines roared, the jarring sounds so loud I jerked and pulled back, then reached for the button on the window, until I stopped and slowly pulled my hand away.
Over the tops of clubs shone a vision. The cross of what must’ve been St. Stewart’s glowed in golden yellow, just like that vision of the cross that had spilled across the mountain at my feet. I pulled my hand back as we turned once more, pulling up on a darkened street outside the clubhouse of a notorious motorcycle club, Hells Saviors.
“You want to know what London’s men are doing?” Benjamin said as the vehicle idled.
As we sat and watched, three four-wheel drives pulled up outside the clubhouse. The driver and the men in the back seat eyed us as they passed. A nod from one of them and I knew they were aware we were friends and not foes. They climbed out and, in a blur, all the men rushed into the building.
The sound of breaking glass was followed by a BOOM! Smoke billowed before a steady stream of men and women dressed in cuts staggered outside, coughing and spluttering. Then four of the eight mercenaries who’d gone in came out mere minutes later, dragging three heavy leaders of the club and threw them to the ground.
“That’s what money buys,” Ben murmured. “Men with guns terrorizing criminals. But that’s not who we’re after. Our target is a whole new breed of vile bastard, ones who hide behind the money and the law.”
He shoved the Range Rover into gear and pulled out, leaving London’s men behind. We turned once more and, as we headed toward the sleek, towering business buildings, I caught sight of the glow of the cross once more.
It was a sign. I was sure of it and, as we slowed and pulled into the parking lot of one of the most prestigious buildings in the city, I understood why.
“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” I asked.
Colt just pulled a gun from behind his back, pulled back the slide, and lowered his hand. “Just tell me who I need to kill to find that fucker.”
He meant Hale, I knew.
We parked in front of the bank of slick steel elevators. But there was already a car waiting as we pulled up. Two men climbed out, one scruffy and dirty, his seedy eyes scanning us dressed in leather cuts and grimy jeans. The other was a stark contrast, in a neat black suit. He adjusted his jacket as we neared.
“Any complications?” Ben asked as he neared.
“Not really. Once Alistair here let us inside, it was pretty fast. He caused a fuss at first, but we straightened him out.”
I looked at the scruffy companion, trying to figure out where he fit in all this.
Ben glanced our way. “Alistair is undercover. He’s a plant from the motorcycle club the Banks brothers, along with Colt and Carven, destroyed. I’ve had him working for me ever since, gaining the kind of information that doesn’t make it online. Ignatius Bremmer is a master manipulator. Not only that, he is one of the lawyers behind The Order, helping it keep out of the courts for the vile things they do.”
“He is who we’re here to kill?” Colt asked as he readied the gun in his hand.
“No. We need information first. We need to know when and where Hale is running to. We get that and we’ll have no further use for him.”
That was all Colt needed. A nod, and the Son strode toward the elevator doors, then stopped and turned in front of them. “You coming, or do I have to torture this motherfucker myself?”
Ben gave a smile and headed after him without waiting for us to follow. But the moment we were inside the elevator, the Stidda Mafia leader changed. Gone were the brightness in his eyes and the remnant of a smile on his lips. He turned cold, so cold that goosebumps raced up my arms.
We rose all the way to the top floor of the building, and when we stopped Benjamin Rossi was the first one off the elevator, striding toward a set of frosted glass doors with the words Bremmer Johnson written in gold. Ben never slowed, just shoved his way through, passed the reception desk and headed for the hallway beyond it.
A man stood outside the door at the end, dressed in black. A Rossi man. He gave his boss a nod as we neared, opened the door for him, and stepped to the side. Why Benjamin wanted us here still wasn’t clear. He had men to do his dirty work. Men to kill. Men to torture. But here we were, following him into the massive corner office to stare at a graying older man sitting with crossed legs on a seat behind a desk.
“Benjamin Rossi,” he said slowly before glancing toward Colt, then me, and finally Caleb. “I see you’ve brought your lackeys with you.”
Colt unleashed a low growl and took a step forward. But the asshole sitting in the seat looked like he’d met his fair share of bullies. He never flinched, never even registered the movement at all.
Benjamin reached around, pulling out some kind of USB device from his pocket. “You remind me of a man I once knew. Someone who assisted another slimy piece of shit like Hale. He too had limited conscience and a large bankroll. I didn’t know the man he was helping to hide. It was just a job to me. One that paid very well.” He reached around the computer on the desk and plugged in the device. Tiny blue lights flickered as data processed.
“What the fuck is that?” Ignatius wrenched his gaze to where Ben had released the device and straightened to his full height. Our presence might’ve been ignored, but that wasn’t. “Get that out of my computer now. You’re breaking the goddamn law here. I’m going to ruin you, Rossi! I’m going to GODDAMN RUIN YOU!”
But Ben just stepped around the desk to stop in front of him. He pulled out a pair of black leather gloves, sliding them on one at a time. “Yes, you very much remind me of that slimy fucker. He roared and spat, too, until I started on his teeth, pulling them out one by one.”
The asshole couldn't take his eyes off those flickering lights on his computer. When he turned back, Ben had secured the straps of his gloves around his wrists. He lunged, grabbed Ignatius by the throat, and clenched. The move was so fast and violent it took the asshole completely by surprise.
He unleashed a cry and flung himself backwards. But it was pointless. Benjamin gripped his throat in a vise-like grip and drove him backwards until the chair tipped. “When I started gutting him slowly, he passed out, but not before he pissed all over himself. If I did that to someone I didn’t know, imagine what I’d do to someone threatening my family.”
